


What if?

by Alba_lass12



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Flashbacks, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Loss, Overdosing, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicide, post reichenbach fall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-10-07 21:40:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17373770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alba_lass12/pseuds/Alba_lass12
Summary: What if Moriarty was not the only one making a mistake whilst planning Sherlock's "suicide"?Sherlock thought he had calculated everyone's reaction and response correctly, but he failed to remember that deep down, John was still a traumatised war veteran.





	What if?

**Author's Note:**

> This is a short one off that's been lurking in the dark corners of my mind. This scenario has been "taunting" me ever since I watched 'The Reichenbach Fall' all those years ago..

_Everything had worked out according to plan. Sherlock had completed Moriarty’s story by taking matters into his own hands. He had feigned his own death and ruined his reputation in order to save his friends from harm. But his biggest challenge was still ahead of him; he would lay low at Molly’s place for a while until the press ran out of catchy headlines, gripping eyewitness accounts and embarrassing photos of him wearing that silly hat. After a few weeks he would start the enormous task of dismantling Moriarty’s vast network which, he’d estimated, would take him at least 18 months. For now, it seemed all would go as planned._

The image of Sherlock standing on the ledge had been terrifying but a small part of John had banked on it being a trick – he had hoped there would be a twist as there always was with Sherlock. All hope and air seemed to be knocked out of him when he saw him stepping over the edge. He stumbled towards the spot where Sherlock had hit the ground, a wave of nausea washed over him as the blood-soaked face and drenched black curls of his friend came into focus. Everything became blurry, faces flooded in and out of sight, cries and sirens blared in the distance. John closed his eyes to shield himself from the scene in front of him, his hands trembling uncontrollably.

The cries turned into shouting men, the sirens disappeared, making way for echoing gunshots. He opened his eyes and found himself sitting on his knees in hot, dirty sand. In front of him lay Steve Thompson, his former classmate at primary school, and now the closest friend he had since joining the army. The soldier clutched John’s arm as he groaned in pain, his face losing all its colour. John tried his best to put pressure on the wound, but he could see the blood seeping through his fingers. ‘It’s going to be alright,’ he assured him, ‘You’ll be fine. Stay with me, it’ll be ok. Just keep looking at me, I won’t let you die out here.’ A deep breath escaped his friend’s mouth and his hands fell to the ground.

With a shock he opened his eyes as he suddenly felt two big hands on his shoulders and he looked up. He was sitting on the pavement next to Bart’s Hospital again. Greg Lestrade was kneeling in front of him, his eyes kind and understanding as he guided John back onto his feet. ‘Come on,’ he said with a soft but firm voice, ‘Let’s get you home.’

Baker Street felt different now, John felt it as soon as he entered the hallway. It seemed all the good memories he had in here had disappeared. Slowly, he trudged up the stairs, his hands gliding over the wallpaper as if he wanted to soak up every detail of the building he had called home. He opened the door to the living room and felt his heart sink again at the sight of Sherlock’s empty chair. The curtains were almost completely closed, letting in the tiniest rays of sunshine. John walked over to the cabinet, got out a bottle of his whisky and a glass, and sank down onto the floor in front of the fire. His senses were still dulled, but his emotions were resurfacing. Anger was soon overshadowed by an overwhelming feeling of sorrow and despair. He had lost his best friend. The man who helped him overcome the troubles he’d brought back from the war. The man who believed in him and who made him the best person he’d ever been. And now he was gone. John poured himself another glass and chugged it as he felt tears forming in his eyes. He was alone again.

Several hours later a familiar black Jaguar pulled up beside 221 Baker Street. The door opened slowly and Molly stepped out, wrapping herself up against the cold wind. She felt wrong entering the flat without there being anyone, but Sherlock has assured her that both John and Mrs. Hudson would likely still be at the police station giving statements. Therefor they had a small window in which Molly could go in and collect the things Sherlock had written down that he would be needing over the next couple of weeks. She looked over her shoulder, ‘Are you sure you don’t want to go and get them yourself? Might be faster.’ Sherlock only shook his head and Molly understood; it would break him to go in now knowing he might never come back. Carefully she opened the front door and as quietly as she could she walked up the stairs. It felt like she was breaking and entering. Once she reached the landing her nerves faded and determined to be in and out as soon as she could, she stepped into the kitchen. It took her several minutes to find everything she needed in the bedroom, kitchen and bathroom. She turned on the lights to get the last items from the living room when she saw an empty bottle on the carpet. Confused she walked to the two chairs in front of the fireplace and she gasped.

Curled up on the floor lay John, his eyes screwed shut, his chest heaving and his mouth covered in sick. Molly hurried over to him and shook his shoulders, ‘John! John! Come on, wake up. What’s wrong?’ He opened one eye and weakly stuck out his hand. She grabbed the two empty bottles from him and read the labels. ‘Oh god,’ she sighed, ‘Oh John. What have you done?’ She reached into her pocket and took out her phone. ‘Hello, ambulance please,’ Molly said as she kept shaking John’s shoulder trying to keep him awake. ‘Yes, 221b Baker Street. Possible OD, sleeping pills, antidepressants and alcohol. He is breathing at the moment, but his pulse if very weak. Ok, thank you.’ She hung up and looked at John again; he was sweating and moaning softly. ‘Come on John, the ambulance will be here soon.’ Molly felt her stomach turning as she saw his arms and legs twitching and heard him gagging. She rolled him onto his side and kept talking to him, whilst sending out a text: ‘Come up. NOW!’

John opened his bloodshot eyes again, still breathing heavily and tried to look up at Molly. She could see the grieve and heartache through his pained expression. Softly, she brushed the wet hair out of his face and stroked his cheek. ‘Why John?’ she asked hesitantly as hurried footsteps approached on the stairs. ‘Alone,’ mumbled John, ‘Can’t...Won’t...Alone.’ The door flew open and Sherlock ran in. The sight was by far the most horrific he had ever seen. He fell onto his knees next to John and grabbed his face with both hands, ‘John! No, jezus, no! Wake up John, please. Jooohn!’' he cried as he desperately tried to get his friend to respond. Their eyes met, and through the tears Sherlock could see that they were almost empty, no sparkle, no joy, no life left. ‘John,’ Sherlock’s voice broke as he noticed John’s chest moving irregularly. ‘I’m sorry,’ whispered John as he drew his last breath, ‘Sorry.’


End file.
